Screamin' from the inside, for out of nowhere. Blamin' about that, seekin' for it.
It swings around its own self, shelf, shell.
It's not my fucking fault. The hole swallows itself, and my blame is not there when it blows against me and I order to leave. To stop.
My fucking heart guess not. Not.
I don't say that I don't give a damn, 'cause I do. But, whatever.
Not my fault.
Dear friend, don't blame the mirror about the uglinesses of your soul.
Fly - nove da manhã. Como todos os dias, o que acordou foi o sol irradiando atrás da cortina bege. Ainda não havia aberto os olhos, movimentava o globo ocular de...
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